Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  “Talk to the commissioner.”

  He laughed, and the elevator door closed.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  April 8

  The news that the doyenne of the wine world had been murdered had created more commotion in the U.S. than in France, Olivier realized, as he walked through JFK Airport passing dozens of televisions, each of them displaying photos and videos of Ellen Jordan, with newscasters explaining the circumstances of her death. After exiting customs, he walked out to look for Bill Casey’s driver. A man stood holding a placard that read “Pierre Guyot.” Olivier almost passed by him, forgetting for a second that he had an alias. Within minutes they were in a black Mercedes SUV, on their way to New Jersey. Olivier double-checked to make sure he had Max’s address, and then relaxed.

  The driver introduced himself as Tim Shea, and told Olivier to “just call me Tim.” Olivier said, “Okay, Tim.” I’m in America, alright, he thought, with everyone on a first-name basis. He was amused when Tim offered to fix him a drink for the road, and was a little sorry that he had to decline.

  He went over the lists that Abdel had put in his hand as he was leaving—the hotel guest list, the Laussac dinner guest list, cheese buyers at the local shop in Saint-Émilion, and a list of flights departing Bordeaux the day after Ellen Jordan’s death. Once off the New Jersey Turnpike, they entered a small town, Tenafly, passing one impressive house after another. The driver rounded a bend and pulled up in front of a palatial home set back from the road which bore a resemblance to an Italian Renaissance villa. Olivier thought this was what people in America referred to as a trophy house. His gaze swept the grounds behind the house, where he saw horse stables below and what appeared to be kilometers of white fencing.

  Tim hopped out and opened Olivier’s door. A man whom he assumed to be Bill Casey waved from the front porch. He looked slight standing in front of his grand house. As any man would, Olivier thought.

  “You’re the first to arrive,” Bill Casey said, “which was my intention. Come in.” They entered a vast foyer with a gilt-framed mirror covering the wall on the right and a curved staircase that seemed to wind upward to eternity. Bill, smiling, led Olivier through a set of doors on the ground floor and on down a short staircase until they were in front of a medieval-type doorway. “I wanted you to see my wine cellar before the others arrive,” he said proudly.

  The cellar, as it turned out, was comprised of five cellars—one holding a concentration of Australian wines, another containing wines from the Bordeaux region, a third filled with Italian wines, and one full of oversized bottles. The fifth cellar was a complex consisting of a dining room, bathroom, and kitchen. All in all, Bill explained, the cellars comprised 9,000 square feet, and held 50,000 bottles.

  “The Mouton has been decanted,” he said.

  “What, exactly, did Madame Jordan say about the one she tasted?”

  “The taste was off. She speculated that someone had found the perfect old bottle and filled it with an inferior wine, which doesn’t mean inexpensive.”

  “Did you agree with her?” Olivier asked.

  “No. But it can be daunting to taste with a world-famous wine critic.” Bill admitted to chronic ambivalence. “Sometimes I wonder if the whole business isn’t a crock,” he said.

  “Crock?”

  “Bullshit.” He hesitated, “Forget I said that. What got me hooked a decade ago was the phenomenal experience of drinking a wine made by an artisan who had put his heart and soul into it. But I’m tired of the competition, and all the turmoil around the dark side of this business.”

  Olivier thought he might be tired of it today, but tomorrow he could be salivating again for that perfect bottle to show his friends. Bill led Olivier down another aisle of the cellar, which Olivier thought must be insured for millions.

  “I heard through Paula Goodwin today that you were interested in one of the magnums from this lot,” Casey said. “That true?”

  “I wanted to see if you were trying to unload them through her.”

  Casey gave Olivier a shrewd look. “And?”

  “She thought she could arrange it.”

  “I just learned that one magnum has gone missing, so there will only be one left after this evening. If anyone changes their mind about confiscating that one, I’ll go through my attorneys, or drink it before they can get their hands on it. I could imagine it being stuck in a corner of a 70-degree office.” They went back upstairs to the kitchen.

  “You aren’t trying to implicate Paula Goodwin in any of these thefts and counterfeiting shenanigans, are you?” Bill asked. “That’s where Max was heading, for no good reason.”

  “My job is to ask questions,” Olivier said. “And to observe. I try to do this without making assumptions.” He looked around at the vast and well-equipped kitchen. “I assume you like to cook?”

  “I’m a meat junkie. Grilling and roasting. My wife Ginny, who’s in Italy for two weeks, prepares the gourmet fare. You cook?”

  “I like to. I wouldn’t know where to begin here, though.” He picked up a bottle of Harlan Estate and examined it. “I’ve been meaning to experiment with California wines.”

  “I could set you up out there,” Bill said. “I know everybody.”

  Olivier smiled at the typically American comment. “I think Max told you that I’m here as a collector by the name of Pierre Guyot,” Olivier said. “I’m learning that people are much more reticent around authority.”

  “Max is a piece of work. She had the gall to threaten me if I told, and came up with a law to back up her threat.”

  Olivier laughed. “Who will be here tonight?”

  “There are six of us,” Bill said. The doorbell chimed a tune. “And here they are.” Three men wearing casual clothes were at the door. Olivier was introduced to Winn Guthrie, owner of the most prestigious wine store in Manhattan on Madison Avenue, a sommelier from a restaurant whose name Olivier didn’t catch, and Phil Ox, director of a cooking school.

  Last to arrive was Paula Goodwin, who apologized for being late, but explained that she had a big auction taking place tomorrow after Ellen’s memorial service. “I almost canceled,” she said, “but then thought it could be a kind of paying homage to her.”

  She noticed Olivier and walked over and shook hands. “Pierre Guyot,” she said. “What a surprise. I asked my friend Vincent Barthes if he was familiar with you after meeting you at the dinner at Cheval Blanc and he said he’d never heard of a Pierre Guyot. That surprised me, as I thought surely you must have at one time or another done business with the Bartheses.”

  “I only moved to Bordeaux last year, and remember, I’ve collected very few bottles compared to the investors you’re dealing with.” He was amazed that his luck was still holding as far as his alias was concerned. He and Max were moving in such small circles that it seemed inevitable that they would be found out. This had been his argument when they had discussed their roles in New York, but she had convinced him to at least start out undercover.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Paula said. She walked over to Bill Casey, who greeted her, then seemed proud to introduce her around. Olivier watched them in discussion. He hadn’t felt any warmth from Paula either time they had met, yet she was magnetic. Her face wasn’t relaxed, but there was no denying that she was an attractive woman. He thought she must be around Ellen’s age, close to fifty. Her blond hair was held back with a headband, and she was sartorially perfect.

  The men gathered around Bill and her, and she held forth, telling stories about her travels in China, including meetings with heads of state, which he thought sounded exaggerated. A maid entered with a tray of champagne flutes, filled with La Grande Dame champagne. “Gentlemen,” Bill said, “we salute one grand lady with another. Let’s raise a glass to Ellen Jordan.” Everyone solemnly lifted a glass and drank.

  The table was ready. Bill motioned for them
to sit. Out of seemingly nowhere, trays of delicious morsels had been placed on the table. “I want to introduce a friend—and fellow collector—who just flew in from France, Pierre Guyot,” Bill continued, and they all nodded. He continued, “I have also brought into our fold this evening the head of the wine department at Blakely’s Auction House. I don’t have to introduce her.” She stood, and looked from face to face.

  “Speech!” one of the men said.

  “Ellen and I were in the wine world together over a decade,” Paula said. “She became le palais early in her career and I was a late bloomer when I entered the auction house circuit. Tonight she is our muse.” She raised her glass again, and the small group followed.

  Bill stood. “Gentlemen, you have a special assignment tonight. Ellen dined with Ginny and me the night before she left for France, and I opened a magnum of 1945 Mouton-Rothschild. However, one glass into our dinner, Ellen was certain that what we were sipping was counterfeit.” The room grew quiet. Bill continued, “Tonight I am going to risk opening another, and your opinion, as well as the expertise of Paula here, will hopefully determine once and for all if someone tampered with these bottles.”

  As if on cue, the maid arrived with a decanter of wine. “I’ll take the empty bottle home with me,” Winn joked to break the tension that had descended. “I read that old bottles are fetching large sums of cash on the Internet.”

  “May I see the cork and label from the bottle?” Olivier asked.

  “Of course,” Bill said, motioning the maid over.

  Bill sipped first, rolling the wine around in his mouth, and swallowing. The others proceeded to do the same. “Ecstasy,” Bill said. Olivier sniffed, then sipped, too astonished to say anything. He agreed with the famous American wine critic, Robert Parker who called it “truly one of the immortal wines of the century.” The flavors entered his consciousness and as he swished the wine lightly he tasted first spicy black cherry, then coffee, tobacco, and mocha. Olivier couldn’t believe the vitality of it. He heard the others in the room exclaiming in soft voices, but after another sip, he felt he had entered a realm beyond all imagination. What a smooth and polished finish, he thought. Eyes closed, he relished the lingering flavor.

  “Monsieur Guyot?”

  He was startled back into reality by Bill’s voice asking him, sotto voce, if he had an opinion. “It’s genuine,” Olivier said. They all sat now in reverent silence, breathing in the perfume of the wine, after quietly sipping, and rolling a little more under the tongue.

  Paula performed a perfect ritual of wine tasting. “Is there any question about the authenticity?” she asked. “There isn’t a shadow of doubt in my mind.” No one expressed a doubt. She looked smug, which annoyed Olivier. He also worried that he, Max, and Abdel had been foolish after all to focus so much attention on the stolen bottle in relation to Ellen’s death. What if someone knew she had it, thought it authentic and simply stole it? Maybe the wine had nothing to do with her murder.

  Winn smiled at Paula, “Who was this lot purchased from, Paula?”

  “I don’t reveal the names of people who sell to me,” Paula said. She was smiling, in control.

  Olivier made a mental note to see if Yves Barthes had responded to his email asking if he had any memory of the sale. He was ready to suggest to Max that they issue a subpoena to search Blakely’s records if they didn’t come up with the entire story behind the wine.

  The maid brought the bottle and the cork to Olivier, who put on his glasses to study them. Everything looked perfect. Olivier excused himself, and went to the kitchen, hoping to sneak out for a breath of fresh air. To have had his mind set on a fake, and then to taste the authentic had jumbled his thoughts, and besides, he was tired. A little night air would bring him back to life. The maid was clearing a tray. “May I help you, sir?”

  He noticed the back door. “I’d like to step out for a little air, that’s all.” She opened the door to the terrace. “The others will join you for cigars,” she said. He stood quietly, looking at the horse stables. In the distance he saw a greenhouse, and beyond that a border of woods. He wandered along a path that appeared to lead back to the front of the house.

  He heard a car door slam, and peered around the corner to see who was leaving. Paula was rushing across the driveway carrying a metal wine case designed for individual bottles. She unlocked her Jaguar and put the case in the back on the floorboard, and quickly went back inside, neglecting to lock the car behind her. Olivier walked over and looked into the car, and peering around to make sure no one was watching, opened the door and took out the case. Hands shaking, he opened the case. A magnum of 1945 Mouton-Rothschild.

  He hurried back to the kitchen, and noticed the door that led to the tasting room cum cellar. He dashed through it, with no one the wiser. He saw another aluminum portable wine carrier, and grabbed it, went into the dimly lit cellar and looked around. Rushing to the California section, he pulled out a magnum of a name he’d never heard of and put it in the case, and snapped it shut. He hadn’t seen anyone. He pretended to be invisible as he scooted through the kitchen and back out to the parking lot. Quickly, he opened Paula’s door and removed the metal case and substituted the one he had just found, then looked around for Tim. Recognizing the SUV, he went over and tapped on the window, waking him up.

  “Whuttsup, man? You ready to go?”

  “Soon. I wanted to leave this here. You never saw it, right?”

  “Never did.”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Bill asked Olivier in a jovial voice when he joined him. He was obviously happy with the results of the tasting.

  Heart pounding, Olivier said, “I’m sorry, but after the long trip my digestion is upset. I think I should leave.”

  “Okay, okay. I understand.”

  “Was Madame Goodwin here earlier today?” Olivier asked.

  “Call her Paula. She actually decanted the wine. She had to see a friend in the neighborhood, and so came early. You met her, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Come join us for a minute!” Bill said.

  “Sure.”

  The guests were on the terrace smoking Cuban cigars and chatting. Olivier took a few puffs and thought the aroma exquisite, but jet lag had set in. It was only 9:00, but by his clock it was 3:00 a.m. Paula was standing alone, and Olivier approached her, thinking of her fury when she opened the case he left her. She said, “Bill Casey’s mother was an Irish maid in Boston, and look at this spread!”

  “The American dream,” Olivier said. “It’s all quite Great Gatsby-ish.”

  “But this place is nothing compared to the châteaux in Bordeaux, huh?”

  “There’s a 500-year difference,” he said, and was pleased to see her smile.

  “I might have the fourth bottle of ’45 Mouton for you,” Paula said. “You said you were interested when we were at the Cheval Blanc dinner.”

  “My understanding from Monsieur Casey is that it’s not for sale.”

  “I can convince him.” She chuckled, “My wine investors are quite pliable. I call it the sandbox syndrome.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The kid happily playing stops and wants what the other kid has. Collectors are like that. They also want to have the bottle, whatever that might be that moment. I’ll find a burgundy that he can become obsessed with, and he’ll be more willing to let this go.”

  “We can talk,” Olivier said.

  “You’re different from the others,” she said. “You do your homework, and you understand the subtleties involved in wine.” Olivier thought his cover was blown, but she continued, “Maybe because you’re French.”

  “How does that make me different?” Olivier asked.

  “It’s not about the money with American collectors,” she said. “What’s $25,000 to them? Some of them make that in an hour.” She laughed, “In a minute.”
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  “And where do you stand?” he asked.

  She laughed but sounded bitter when she spoke. “Money’s an illusion, and I know that’s a cliché. There is never enough money in this city, and once a woman divorces, as I have recently, it feels like being on Skid Row.”

  He gave her an admiring look. “You don’t look to be close to the edge.”

  She was pleased. “What’d you think of tonight’s tasting?”

  “Like everyone else, I found the wine transcendent.”

  “Spoken like a true Frenchman.” She moved closer to him and put her hand on his arm. “I can give you a ride into the city. I have a vintage wine there, and I won’t tell you which one. That would blow your mind. Where’s your hotel?”

  She was coming onto him! He hadn’t anticipated that. “I’m staying with a friend.”

  “So? You can’t have a drink before going home?”

  “I’m sorry. She’s been waiting for me for hours.”

  Paula gave him a hostile look and stalked off.

  Chapter Thirty

  April 8

  Joe begged out of the meeting with Walt as predicted. Hank, on the other hand, was pacing around Walt’s office when Max arrived. She updated them on events in Bordeaux. Hank broke into the conversation, furious that Vincent hadn’t been locked up for attempting to drug Max. “I outwitted him,” she said. “Plus we don’t want him in jail for obvious reasons.” Hank remained silent when the counterfeit ring came up, and Max knew this part didn’t interest him.

  “In a nutshell, what do you think happened?” Hank asked Max.

  “I think Ellen accused her visitor to his face.”

  “But the murder was premeditated.”

  Max said, “The visitor entered her suite, probably nervous about being exposed, with a wait-and-see attitude. Ellen, unaware of danger, said everything that was on her mind. The sauterne was opened, and then the blue cheese was brought out as a special treat, just like in a fairy tale.